


Eren Jaeger decides to write

by Plinycapybara



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1920s, Bars, Book - Freeform, Dancing, Drinking, F/M, Fishing, M/M, Ocean, Paris - Freeform, Poetry, Sea, Writer, Writing, fisherman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plinycapybara/pseuds/Plinycapybara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years after the titans' defeat, Eren lives with Armin in a shack by the sea. Armin teaches, Mikasa and Jean tend a bar, and Eren makes a meager, overworked living as a fisherman. Tired of his mundane existence, one night he winds up getting a bit too tipsy and falls into a ditch, where he wakes up in 1920s Paris. After spending a day with Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds in the city of lights and mysteriously returning back with a device called a 'typewriter', Eren decides to write instead, much to everyone's horror. Is this the end of humanity? The fact that Eren Jaeger has become a best-selling poet and novelist? (You heard me right. Eren writing poetry. Be very, very afraid).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Eren decides to write a novel

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on ArchiveofmyOwn, so go lightly. I haven't the slightest clue how this works. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SNK / AOT. 
> 
> Eren decides to write. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

Fuck it

 

There are few things I hate almost as much as Titans. One of them, ironically—is the smell of fish. If I told my fifteen-year-old self that, he’d punch me in the face. Though anyone would be disgusted by fish if you spent three hundred sixty-two days a year, fifteen hours a day, around them. It'd get tiring, no matter how much I wanted to see them as a kid. At thirty-five, the nine hours I get off of work I barely remember my own name. My life is a fucking wreck. My husband Armin does nothing but teach children who don’t give a shit about what he’s making them read, and Mikasa married the asshole Jean who now runs a bar. If I had to go back ten years, I would have warned Armin and my twenty-five-year-old self that settling down near the sea was a bad idea. And they would’ve punched me the face. 

 

I never thought life without Titans would be almost as miserable as when they were on this fucking baking rock. I glanced into my reflection in a shot glass, "Oh, sweet, sweet whiskey, what'd I do without you?" 

“Eren, you drink like Armin reads.” Jean polished his glass, “Remember when you were a productive member of society?”

“Yeah, remind me again when I listened to you?” My eyes twitched, “I fucking hate you.”

“I love you, too.” Jean spat. 

“Shut the fuck up, horse-face. No one asked for your opinion.” I retorted.

“I’m cutting you off.” Jean replied.

“Then I’ll stop listening your whining. Hey, why do you have a mane?” I asked. 

“What?” Jean asked.

“You have a mane and your face is sticking out.” I answered, “And you have hooves.”

“You need to go home before your next shift. They’ll throw you off if you don’t sober up.” Jean sighed. 

“Since when the fuck do you give a shit about me?” I asked. 

“You’re my brother-in-law.” Jean answered, “It sickens me that I have to give a shit.” 

“When did that happen?” I asked.

“Eight years ago.” Jean answered.

“What the fucking hell did Mikasa see in you?” I asked. 

“Eren, go home and sober the fuck up.” Jean ordered.

“You still have your titan-killing gear. Kill me.” I ordered.

“I’M THROWING YOU OUT.” Jean cringed.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?” Mikasa’s voice roared from the back.

“Nothing, nothing,” Jean rolled his eyes.

 

Deserted streets were one thing I never thought I’d treasure. Again, my fifteen-year-old self would punch me if I told him that. My once strong legs trembled. I had long lost count of the shots I had; not that math was ever my strong suit. My head throbbed like I was carrying that fucking boulder again. “Maybe if I just lie down, I’ll wake up and I’ll be dead.” The alcohol finally took its toll on my aging body. I fell to the ground in the poorly paved street. “Let me die,”

 

Lights flickered above me; was this it? Was this heaven? Am I finally…finally dead? I don’t have to smell fish again. The lights became more vibrant. I heard the sound of joyous clapping, music, and the sweet scent of alcohol. 

“I don’t have to smell fish again…I’m finally dead. Death has me…it has me…mother…Petra…Marco…all of you who gave your lives…I’m coming…I’m finally coming,” I mustered the last of my strength from my youth, “What the fucking Hell is this place!? This is…not Heaven.”

 

The roads were paved so much better than even inside Wall Sina. The stores and the streets were alit with lights the likes no one—not even Erwin or Levi—had probably ever witnessed. The laughter came from drunks trembling down the streets, covered in jewels and finely dressed. There was a scent of perfume, cigars, chocolate, wine and flavors I’ve never dreamed of, even when Armin and I went across the world for our Honeymoon. Music that followed the beat of the human soul with instruments I’ve never heard filled the streets from inside the bars.

 

“Where…what is this place…?” I got up. I was drunk out of my mind, so it was very possible this was all just a fucked up dream of mine. “Jean was right for once in his life; I needed to get home and sober up. I, Eren Jaeger, can’t believe that I just said that. My life really is-”

“LEAVE ME ALONE, SCOTT!” a woman dressed in a knee-length off-white dress laced with pearls rammed into me. Her hair was cut short and styled with some strange substance; perhaps it was held by the headband with the feather sticking out. I grabbed a hold of her arm; she was in a great amount of distress.

“Um, is something the matter, I’ll help-” 

“ITS NOTHING!” the woman snapped.

“Its obviously something,” I said. I then heard a concerned man’s voice coming from behind, 

“ZELDA, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, I DIDN’T MEAN WHAT I SAID!” the man was blond. He looked a lot like Erwin in a civilian’s clothing. He wore a jacket and a shirt underneath with slacks. The woman he was chasing—I’m guessing from the conversation was named Scott, and the woman’s name was Zelda, turned around and yelled, “DON’T TALK TO ME, SCOTT! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” She ran off to an alleyway after wiping tears from her face.

 

The man I know knew as Scott glanced at me, “I apologize for my wife’s behavior. She needs some time alone to calm herself down. She tends to get over emotional. I’m Scott Fitzgerald, trying to get a few books published. Paris is the place to get your name out. I trust that’s why you’re here as well…?”

“Eren Jaeger,” I glanced away from the man, “Former member of the Recon Corps,”

“The…what?” Scott asked.

“The Recon Corps? Also known as the Survey Corps,” I answered. Scott stilled looked at me with a great deal of confusion.

“Must be a veteran of the Great War,” Scott sighed.

“I’m a veteran, yes,” I nodded. I had never heard of someone refer to the Human-Titan conflict as “the Great War”, but it was a fitting name. A far better name than what some others had come up with. I glanced back up at Scott, “You said that this place is called Paris? I’ve never heard of Paris.”

 

Scott let out a chuckle, “You never heard of Paris, and yet you’re here, a veteran of the Great War? Its fine, I won’t look down on you; you smell of alcohol. Your eyes look rather red. Perhaps you’re just suffering from some alcohol-induced memory loss? Look, I’ve forgotten where I was as well a few times when I had a bit too much. Eren, do you need me to walk you home?”

“I…I don’t know this place. I need…somewhere to stay for the night…to sober up…before I go to work,” I answered. 

“Seeing that Zelda might not come back for a while, quite possibly until sunrise, I suppose I’ll let you stay in my apartment. The couch is always open, well, unless Hemingway broke into my apartment again, then you’re out of luck.” Scott shrugged, “I like you, Eren.”

“Not sure I can return the same feelings for your wife,” I answered.

“You’re definitely not the first one to say that,” Scott sighed.

 

—

 

I awoke to a different ceiling; a good change, seeing that the seaside shack I share with Armin leaks and collects mold. Of course since I’m the “man” of the household, Armin makes me clean it up. Though this ceiling was plaster-covered brick. The couch I was on had some strange material. It was fuzzy, but the hairs weren’t long. “I take it you’re not a fan of velvet?”

“So…this wasn’t a drunken dream? What the fuck is velvet?” I asked.

“You’ve never seen velvet before?” Scott asked, “Eren, please, tell me you at least know what a phone is.” I shook my head. “Radio?” I shook my head again. “Lightbulbs?” I shook my head once again; I hadn’t a clue what he was saying. “…Well, I’m going out to brunch in a short moment. I left some fresh clothes out for you and warmed up the tub. You need to bathe. Badly. Also, if the phone—that being the metal box with the numbers on it and the wires sticking out—makes a strange noise, don’t be startled, I’m just expecting a call from my editor. Her name is Gertrude Stein. Just tell her that I’m out at lunch and I’ll see her at the jazz performance tonight.”

“How do I do that? She’s not in the box.” I asked. 

“Well, that’s not how phones work, Eren,” Scott paused. He picked up a curvy, cylinder-shaped piece, “Eren, listen up, this is how you use a phone. Pick this piece up and put it towards your ear. There’s a operator on the other line of the cord who will transfer your voice to the person you want to talk to,”

“…What? You mean…as in, the operator’s in the box?” I asked.

“NO!” Scott rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Why do I surround myself with crazy people?” 

“How’d they get a person into the box?” I asked.

“They didn’t put a person into the box—you know what, never mind, I’m leaving. I give up.” Scott grabbed his long coat, “Eren, take a bath, change into the clothes that I left on the bed and do NOT answer the phone so Gertrude doesn’t think that Zelda has passed her craziness to me.”

 

“Ok, wait, WHAT!?” I cringed before Scott slammed the door. I was alone in this stranger’s apartment filled with objects and materials so luxurious I’m even sure the king had them. I got up. Armin would go mad if he were here. The paintings were in a style foreign to me; they didn’t reflect any kind of political duty to the king, in fact it was a naked woman made of white squares. The object—called a “phone”—began to make a noise the likes I’ve never heard. It wasn’t intimidating, but it was mechanical. I picked it up,

“The operator will now transfer you—please hold on,” a woman’s voice answered.

“OPERATOR, ARE YOU IN THERE!? ARE YOU ALIVE!?” I grabbed a hold of the box.

“Scott, Scott, calm down, I’m doing fine.” An older woman’s voice answered.

“I’m Eren, not Scott…he’s out at the moment.”

“Oh, I’ll talk to him tonight then. Oh, Eren…is that your name? How do you know Scott?”

“Um, I’m his houseguest…,”

“Very well, he has many, are you coming to the performance tonight?”

“Sure?” I didn’t quite know what the performance was or why it was happening.

“Alright, good day,” the line broke off and fell silent. I glanced at the piece of metal. I bathed in the demand of Scott and then changed into the clothes he left me; a khaki jacket, slacks and a shirt. He left a pair of old shoes as well. “Who was that woman? How did she fit in that box?” Armin might know more about this. Sighing, I glanced down at the street; I spotted Scott with his hungover wife and another man, strongly built smoking a cigar. They were sitting in a restaurant, sipping coffee and enjoying themselves. “I am rather hungry,”

 

Zelda’s face had barely lifted up from the table. As I walked over to the trio, Scott put down his cup of coffee, “I’m afraid I haven’t introduced you to my house guest. This is Eren Jegaer. He’s from…where are you from,”

“Shiganshina District, and yes, I saw the Colossal Titan.” I answered.

“Never heard of either of those things. Um, I think he’s suffering from some Post-trauma stress from the Great War.” Scott whispered.

“Who isn’t?” the strongly-built man asked, “Well, of the people of served,”

“You’re preaching to choir,” I sighed.

“Look, Hemingway, Eren doesn’t even know what a light bulb or a radio is. He thought that the operator of the phone would be in the box. He didn’t know he was in Paris and hadn’t even heard of it. He’s suffering from some major psychological issues.” Scott whispered.

“I can hear you,” 

“Then have him drink,” Hemingway answered.

“Hemingway, he was drunk out of his mind when I found him. This goes deeper than alcohol.”

“Nonsense, Scott; look at the Zeldas of the streets. They do not toil, but they drink and cry and no one thinks less of them.” Hemingway smirked.

“Wow, Hemingway,” Scott nodded as he pulled over a chair made of iron over towards the table. I sat in it and glanced over at the man now known as Hemingway.

“So, yer a veteran? Where’d yer serve?” Hemingway asked. 

“The Recon Corps,”

“What’d they do?” Hemingway asked. 

“We went and fought giants called titans who threatened humanity head-on.”

“Sounds like my type of people. Looking death in face. Why are you in Paris?” Hemingway asked. 

“I just woke up here, alright?”

“You a writer?” Hemingway asked. That was literally the first time anyone asked me that. Not even Armin bothered asking me that. 

“No, well…my husband Armin is…of sorts. Well, no, he’s not. He writes commentary on things other people have written, and some on science.” I answered. 

“That right?” Hemingway spit and put his cigar back into his case, “So, Eren, what are you?”

“Well, I’m half-human, half-titan, I used be a soldier for humanity and…right now…since the conflict over…I’m a fisherman.” I shrugged.

“So, what I hear you saying is that you don’t know what the fuck you are?” Hemingway asked. 

“…Yeah,” I sighed, “I don’t,”

“Paris is a place of self-discovery,” Scott sighed, “How long are you away for?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Do you keep a journal?” Scott asked.

“No, I don’t,” I answered.

“That’s a shame, I think you have a good amount in you that wants to get out.” Scott sighed. 

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’m trying to get rid of my old typewriter since I just ordered a new one from England. Do you want it?” Scott asked, “Though all of my writing friends already have typewriters.”

“Type-writer…?”

 

—

 

“Type-writer…,” I glanced up to see a teal machine with keys labeled with letters. There was paper held together in between pieces of metal. 

“EREN, WAKE UP! WAKE UP, YOU’RE LATE FOR WORK!” Armin’s voice boomed, “I already had breakfast and your porridge is cold—what the fucking hell is that thing!?” He rushed over to the typewriter.

“A type-writer,” I answered.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. This is amazing. Where did you find this?” Armin asked.

“Someone just gave it to me because they were getting a new one.” I answered.

“Someone on the street just gave this to you?” Armin asked.

“Yeah,” I nodded, “Funny, I don’t even know how this damn thing works.”

“Do you press the keys or something?” Armin asked, “I’m sorry, I have to get to work. Don’t break that thing while I’m gone, alright?”

 

'That’s a shame. I think you have a good amount in you that wants to get out'. Scott's voice echoed as I played around with the keys. Armin had found the time to teach me how to become literate a few years after the titans were defeated. He often read to me; love poetry, mostly, but also some other favorites that were mostly about nature. What the Hell would I, Eren Jaeger, write about? Titans-NO, something. I don’t know..maybe I should just figure out how this damn thing works before I even think of starting something. 

 

From dawn to dusk when Armin came home after tutoring several of his students, I sat there typing. And typing. And typing. I wasn’t sure what I was typing; I wasn’t even sure if they were sentences. “Eren, what are you doing?”

“TRYING TO BE PRODUCTIVE.” I answered.

“Have you eaten today?” Armin asked.

“I don’t remember eating, no.” I answered.

“So you figured out how it works?” Armin asked.

“YES. Sort of…I think,” I answered.

“We should find a way to mass produce this.” Armin smiled and then looked at the piles of my shitty writing. “Huh, this actually isn’t that bad. Actually, its gold when I think it was written by you of all people. With some editing, this could actually get published.”

“What-”

“Oh God, did I just say that? I just did.” Armin laughed, “This is really good, though. People always surprise you, I guess.”

“So you’ll edit this?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Eh…maybe you should leave out the part about Jean being a shitty horse-face.” Armin reached a certain paragraph.

“That’s what he is.” I whined.

“Actually, you should probably change the names anyway.” Armin suggested.

“So I can call him a shitty horse-face?” I asked.

“If you change the name, yes.” Armin answered.

 

—-

 

Four months after it was published, I couldn’t go down the street without someone congratulating me. Great, they didn’t thank me for saving mankind for extinction, but hey, you sold a best-seller, you’re awesome now. FUCK YOU PEOPLE. I sat in Jean’s bar with a glass of whiskey. I glanced up at Jean who didn’t look so much like he wanted to kill himself right then and there since Marco died. “You…Eren Jaeger…the No. 1# best selling author for four months straight. I thought for the longest time that titans would be the greatest threat that humanity has faced, but no—its the fact that you got published, and not only that, you were successful.”

“Shut up, shitty horse-face.” I cussed.

“Eren, you are literally the last person on the face of the planet I expected to publish a book.” Jean said. 

“Well, people surprise you sometimes.” I tried to quote Armin. 

“You know what? Yes, Eren. They do. They do when I find them split in half. They do when they turn into a titan and kill some of the best warriors in mankind in the middle of a forest. They do when I find out that they can both transform into a fifteen-meter titans and write best-sellers while being a drunken fisherman.” Jean answered.

“Actually, I wrote the best parts while I drunk.” I told him. 

“Not surprised,” Jean rolled his eyes, “So…you thinking about writing another one?”

“What?” I lifted my head off of the table.

“The problem is,” a familiar voice came from across the bar, “You’ll have to come up with different plotlines. Not just the same ones,”

“L-Levi, I haven’t seen you in years!” Jean exclaimed.

“Hanji loved every word of it. She read cover to cover several times over and then forced me to read it. I never felt so dirty in my life.” Levi sighed, “It was accurate to how things were back then though. How’d you go from being the biggest dumbass I’ve ever met to being a best-selling author?”

“I just poured out…sort of…what I’ve had to keep inside of me now that I don’t have a reason to fight anymore…and there’s no motivation that could turn me into a titan…so there,”

“Armin helped you with the grammar?”

“Yes,”

“Well, the only answer to that—being that you probably have nothing else to draw from other than sheer emotions—would be poetry.” Levi then realized what he just said, “Oh…my…God. Did…those words really leave my mouth?” Jean looked back at me in equal fear and confusion.

“You just suggested to Eren Jaeger that he should write poetry.” Jean answered.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m going to go…kill myself. I’ve finally lost it. I just heard THAT name in the same sentence as poetry.” Levi got up and left the bar.

“He lived a good life.” Jean sighed.

“It might not be a half-bad idea, though,” I glanced at myself in the shot glass.

“OF COURSE ITS A BAD IDEA,” Jean exclaimed.

—-

 

WHAT HAS THE LITERARY WORLD COME TO!?!


	2. Eren Jaeger writes poetry (God help us)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren Jaeger decides to write poetry. Yes. You heard right. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

Chapter II: Eren writes poetry

“The problem is,” a familiar voice came from across the bar, “You’ll have to come up with different plotlines. Not just the same ones,” 

Levi’s threat to kill himself was an empty, drunken one, but his advice was realistic. I’m far more willing to admit that Levi would give practical advice than Jean. NOT that’s a very high bar to surpass. Levi’s someone that I do still respect; his titan-killing skills were only matchable by Mikasa, and he DID save my ass in that court case (despite it was through beating the living shit out me). To honest, journalists and literary critics had asked me the same exact question, “What are planning on writing after this? Do you have a plotline in your head?”   
“Um...well...,” TITANS. I shook my head, “Well, not yet, no. I’ll think of something.” 

Not only that, but mail from fans of the book (fans. I never had fans when he kicking the ass of humanity’s greatest enemy) had asked almost constantly when my next book would coming out. Early one morning, sitting in my room with Armin next to me who was whispering lines from his favorite Pushkin poem, I kissed him on the cheek and forehead. “What am I going to do, Armin?”   
“You said Levi suggested that you try your hand at poetry. Both of us respect Levi; I know that you do. He’s one of the few people you actually think has a good head on his shoulders. And to be honest, as a book-lover myself, I think he couldn’t be more right. You can’t just write the same exact things and expect people to have to same reaction after a while.” Armin answered.   
“Armin? Can you help me?” I asked my husband. His blue eyes met with mine.   
“I’d love to, but I have to head to work and after class I have a school board meeting. I also have to meet with a few parents and a some students want some tutoring. After I get back, though...which might not be until nine or ten tonight, but still--I’ll help you. Until then, you can read some from my poetry collection.” Even though I was able to finally quit my miserable job as a fisherman, Armin refused to quit his teaching job. He said that he loved teaching kids and shaping young minds too much to quit just because we didn’t really need the money. Even though because of his job we didn’t have time to adopt kids, Armin loved to spoil Mikasa’s three daughters. Every time Armin walked into Jean’s bar; “UNCLE ARMIN’S HERE!” 

“Pushkin’s a good place to start, I’d say.” Armin blushed.   
“Without you reading him to me?” I asked.   
“Why not?” Armin asked.   
I glanced down at the floor, “It just...doesn’t have the nearly same effect when its not being read by your voice. That’s all.”   
Armin blushed, “Thank you, Eren. Just try to imagine my voice reading it. I love you.” 

I glanced down at the blankets and then over at Armin as he adjusted his tie. He only had a few of them--seven of them to be exact--but he wore a different one for each of the week. He threw his khaki coat with a pin that symbolized that he was a Recon Corps veteran, which he often got questions from his students about, “Were the titans REALLY as big as my parents said that they were?” and “Did you ever see someone get eaten by a titan?” or my personal favorite, “How many titans did you kill, Mr. Jaeger?”--Armin took my last name after we got married.

Armin then blew a kiss and winked as he left the bedroom, “I’ll see you.”

A magic moment I remember   
I raised my arms and you were there  
A fleeting vision, the quintessence  
of all that’s beautiful and rare 

I lied on the bed and tried to imagine Armin’s voice reading this, but it felt empty when he wasn’t here. Like the words had no meaning when two hearts tied together read it together. They just symbols on the page, nothing more. I closed my eyes and leaned back on my pillow. I began to hear another heartbeat, in the form of shoes clapping on the floor. The smell of tobacco and wine filled my nose. Paintings decorated the room as musicians played instruments I’ve never seen. I saw a face of a young woman. She had pearls, smoky eye-liner, red-painted lips and grey eyes.  
“What are you doin’ lying here?” She asked.   
Scott, the man I meant the last time I was here, approached the woman, “Edna, ain’t this Scott’s houseguest. He’s suffering from some post-trauma from the Great War.”  
“Well isn’t that just the bee’s knees.” The woman now known as Edna sighed sarcastically, “He probably can’t even dance. Can you...?”   
“No,” I answered shortly.  
“Well, well, if isn’t Scott the Great Gatsby and Millay the feminist poet?” Hemingway grabbed onto Scott. He glanced at me, “Eren, you’re already drunk.”   
Scott glanced at Hemingway, “So are you.”   
“I’m not drunk, just exhausted. I just got published not that long ago.” I groaned.   
“That right?” Hemingway asked.   
“Everyone’s urging me to write poetry.” I answered, “My husband is the poet, not me.”   
“Is everyone around you insane? And you have a husband?” Scott asked.   
“Yeah, I’m gay, alright? I don’t care about gender as long as they can fight.” I answered.   
“Hemingway, did you not tell us that you had a twin?” Edna asked.   
“If I didn’t, I didn’t know I did, either.” Hemingway answered, “Bitch, if Eren wants to learn poetry so bad, Millay, you talk to the man.”   
“Eren doesn’t even know how to dance.” Edna protested.   
“Who gives a shit?” Hemingway asked as he clung onto a woman, “Hadley, another cigar?” 

Edna knelt down by the couch I lied on, “Are you really serious about writing poetry?”   
“Everyone’s telling me to; and I’m at loss of what to write next.” I answered, “I mostly drew from sheer emotion and experience since...I’m not exactly...my husband’s the reader of the duo.”   
“That’s perfect then.” Edna’s eyes lit up.   
“...Fuck, I’m going to be the laughing stalking of the Recon Corps veterans.”   
“You don’t have to worry about sentence structure, just write the world you see, the emotion it sparks inside of you...and let it flow. But, there are a few forms you should know. Not everyone follows them though. I do. But you’re not required to.” Edna answered. She went over and got a napkin, “The sonnet form has a few different version--ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG. That’s the one I use, to be honest, its easiest out of all the forms. Again, you don’t have to rhyme.”   
“Giving writing advice, Millay?” an accented voice asked. Millay turned her hair around to a man of different nationality than Hemingway, Scott and Edna. “Yes, this is Eren, I’m told that he’s a veteran who’s having some issues because he mostly draws from experience and emotion.”   
The man removed a cigar from his face, “...He’d make a good surrealist, or a subject at last. Would you like to be a subject of mine-”   
“NO,” I answered shortly. Millay turned around with her eyes widened.   
“I met if I could paint you.”   
“...Still creepy,” I told him. He shrugged and left. Millay turned to look at me, “Picasso can be a bit weird sometimes. Sorry about that. Do you want to learn how to dance?”   
“I’m not interested in dancing with you. I only want to dance with my husband.” I told her.   
“Then do you want to at least watch us dance to get the major ideas? It’ll impress him.”   
“It would,” I thought of Armin, “It really would,”

I tapped my feet together as I watched the major dance movements. Millay danced with her husband, who didn’t seem that jealous that she just offered another man to dance with her. I suppose if he overheard, it was instruction. Still, I will only dance with Armin. The women playing with jewels in their red-painted lips and smoky eyes. The men dressed with shined shoes and well-ironed ties. Only Armin. “Only Armin...,”   
\---

“Only Armin...I’ll only dance...with Armin...,” I whispered.   
“Th-Thank you,” Armin’s voice echoed. He stood at the edge of our bed and set his briefcase down, “You’re the only one I’d ever dance with ever, even though I’m sure you’re not that good.”   
I glared out the window and realized that it was already sunset, “OH FUCK!”   
“What brought dancing up? Just curious?”   
“I-I just...had a dream about it.”   
“Dancing?” Armin asked. “Yeah,”   
“I thought you dreamed of killing titans.”   
“I did, for a while, well--until we killed them all, then it was pointless.”   
“Can you dance? I know you probably have two left feet.” Armin chuckled. I rose to my feet, remembering the moves of those on the dance floor, and grabbed a hold of Armin’s shoulders. I stepped back, and then stepped forward, “Where did you learn the Charleston?” Armin asked.   
“I watched someone people at the bar,” -Was that what this dance was called?   
“You’re actually not bad,” Armin blushed and leaned his head on my shoulder.   
\--

“Armin, you said that Eren’s actually not that bad of a dancer?” Jean asked.   
“No, not at all. He’s actually pretty good at the Charleston.” Armin answered.   
“UNCLE ARMIN!” three voices of little girls chimed.   
“GET IN HERE, YOU HAVEN’T DONE YOUR HOMEWORK YET!” Mikasa’s voice roared.   
“When you think about it, the 3D Maneuver Gear isn’t that different from dancing. While the Charleston isn’t the first dance I’d compare it to...I can see where it’d be somewhere in Eren’s subconscious of missing his titan-fighting days that he dreamt of something similar.” Armin glanced down at his shot glass.   
“I wouldn’t call using 3D Maneuver Gear to fight man-eating giants similar, Armin.” Jean spat.   
“I’ll say it again, people can surprise you sometimes.” Armin smiled. The door opened as I came in and collapsed onto the bar counter exhausted.   
“What’s up, titan-author?” Jean smirked.   
“Titan-poet now.” I groaned.   
“Those are the last two words that should be in the same sentence together.” Jean answered.   
“I just published my first chapbook, so there.” I commented.   
“I don’t even know what a chapbook is...,” Jean paused and glanced over at Armin.   
“Its a small collection of poetry. Usually there’s only about 20-50 poems in it.” Armin answered, and then continued, “I’ve published a few chapbooks myself, actually. As did Hanji and Levi.”   
Jean blinked. “Is there anyone else who was in the Recon Corps that’s published anything that no one’s just told me about? MIKASA, did you publish anything?” Jean turned around.   
“No because I’m busy with the brats you put into my uterus.” Mikasa cringed. After an awkward silence, Mikasa left to go into the back room.   
“Congrats, titan-brat. You’ve officially out-done yourself.” Levi’s voice came from across the bar counter. He glanced over at me while playing with the ice cubes in his shot glass.   
“What do you mean?” I asked.   
“You published poetry. You. Eren Jaeger.” Levi answered.   
“Seriously, who else published anything without telling me?” Jean asked, “Christ, if Eren can publish a book of poetry, then I can write an epic to match Homer.”   
“Try, bitch.” I smirked and quoted from my chapbook "The Key of Titans", “'Red flesh of the millions attaching to my skin like glue...',”  
“You wrote that?” Jean asked and then turned to Levi, who nodded.   
“Mikasa, do you think I should write anything?” Jean turned around to the covered doorframe.   
“GET BACK TO WORK, HORSE-FACE.” Mikasa’s voice answered.


End file.
